


Changes

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Trans Character, referenced transphobia, references to murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Sherlock's behaviour on Greg's new case piques his curiosity and sets him on a path to everything he has ever wanted.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place early in season three. If you have problems with transgender people, hit the 'back' button now.

Greg Lestrade slipped into the middle lift just as the doors were closing, a paper Costa cup clutched firmly in hand. He did not acknowledge anyone else in the lift, keeping his eyes on the doors so as to avoid any attempt at conversation, and tried his best to ignore the mechanical whirring as the lift lurched into life. He failed: the sound of the lift and its twittering passengers managed to get on every last one of his frazzled nerves. 

As the lift stopped at the first floor and shed three of its passengers Greg’s mind returned to his new case. Natasha Brailsford had been found hanging from the staircase by her housemate, Joanne Burnett, when she’d returned from a night shift in the Amazon warehouse. As distraught as the young woman had been, she had been absolutely adamant that her friend had _not_ committed suicide, and Greg’s instinct told him she was right; apart from a messy break-up at the tail end of last year, everything had been going well for her, from progressing further with her gender confirmation treatment to her new job. No, Greg and his team had quickly come to the conclusion that Natasha had been murdered. The problem had come when they had starting drawing parallels between this murder and a death that DI Bradstreet and his team had investigated recently, which was in the process of being closed as a suicide. Greg, however, did not like the odds that two trans women dying by hanging in the same city within the space of three weeks were unrelated, and had properly put the wind up Bradstreet by going to their DCI, poking holes in the other man’s work, and asking for the case to be transferred to him. 

Eventually the lift reached the seventh floor, which housed the major crimes teams, and Greg left with a sigh of relief. He’d never liked starting the day in an overheated lift packed with gossiping coppers, but there was no way he was taking the stairs with the thumping headache he had woken up with. Fortunately, it was early enough that he was one of the first to arrive, and he managed to make it through the open plan office to his team’s area without anyone attempting to make conversation with him. A quick detour by Whittard’s desk to stick a note asking her to see him on arrival on her monitor later, and he was soon within sight of his cool, dim office. That, however, was the moment that his morning started going to pot: through the blinds he saw a shape that was most definitely Sherlock Holmes. 

“Christ, what’re you doing here?” he asked resignedly as he entered his office. “Don’t tell me Mrs Hudson’s kicked you out. I _told_ you to stop disposing of body parts in her bins.”

“Bradstreet is an idiot: no one noticed that Amy Golding’s ex-girlfriend is still active on a Facebook page for the angry exes of trans women,” Sherlock said by way of greeting. 

“Bradstreet decided it was a suicide early on so I doubt they put that much thought into her friends and family,” Greg replied, dropping into the least uncomfortable of the visitors’ chairs. “I’ve asked our boss to transfer it over to me because it’s _got_ to be linked to Natasha Brailsford’s murder.”

Sherlock hummed, his gaze still fixed on the screen. “You’re right: both women were killed by Golding’s ex-girlfriend. When I can get access to her phone, I expect to find messages between her and your victim’s ex-girlfriend discussing how badly they have been wronged by their respective exes. Having got a taste for revenge killing when she murdered Natasha, she will have been unable to resist taking revenge on her new best friend’s behalf. ” He paused and frowned at the screen, rapidly clicking the mouse. “I know Bradstreet; he will have seen a short, pregnant woman, apparently having moved on and set up with a new boyfriend, and immediately written her off as a potential suspect.” He suddenly looked at Greg, an intensity in his eyes that took Greg aback. “Why did you decide Brailsford had been murdered?”

“A few things,” Greg answered immediately. “I know suicide’s common in the trans community, but she had a lot of therapy as part of her gender confirmation treatment and not one of the people she saw noted suicidal ideation. I interviewed her housemate yesterday evening and she was _very_ clear Natasha wasn’t suicidal - she’d just started a new job and they even had a holiday planned.”

“Very good, Lestrade; you’re learning,” Sherlock said approvingly with a glance down at his watch. “DCI Cooke emailed you half an hour ago confirming that the Golding murder has been allocated to you, by the way.”

Greg huffed into his coffee, not at all surprised that Sherlock had hacked his computer. Again. “I changed my password last week.”

“I know,” Sherlock smirked. “Oh, and you needn’t worry about Whittard: she wouldn’t miss being involved in solving these cases for the world.”

Cold anger crashed over Greg like a tsunami as Sherlock spoke. There was no _way_ that Whittard had told Sherlock about starting gender confirmation treatment, not when she had only disclosed it to him as her direct supervisor when offering to hand in her notice out of fear that she could not undergo that treatment _and_ be a copper. Greg had quickly put paid to that, spent days reading everything he could get his hands on so as ot to fuck up, and offered every assurance of confidentiality and support within his power, but Sherlock fucking Holmes had _still_ found out. “Have you been going through my personnel files again?” Greg demanded, waving his now-tepid coffee angrily. “I’ve fucking _told_ you about that!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No: I merely observed. Gender identity isn’t simply what a person looks like or which name they use, Lestrade. If I can tell an airline pilot by his left thumb, do you really think I don’t know a woman when I see one?”

Closing his eyes and breathing evenly to give himself space to reason rather than react, Greg forced himself to think through the pounding in his skull. Sherlock was a colossal dick, more than capable of cracking the Met’s security and reading those files, but Greg _had_ seen him pull the finest threads together to get to the right answer many times over the course of their acquaintance. The outrage ebbed, and he sighed. “Well, that’s alright then. Just you see that it stays that way.”

“Stop wittering, Greg,” Sherlock replied distractedly, turning his attention back to the monitor. “I need to find what else that cretin missed.”

After a few minutes, when the caffeine had had time to do its job, another thought occurred to Greg. “What’s got you interested in this, anyway? You turned down a cracking locked room last week because it was ‘boring’, but you’re all over a bog standard murder.”

“Which bit of ‘stop wittering’ did you not understand?” Sherlock snapped, not moving his eyes from the screen. “Your team is arriving; get them ready to go, and tell your favourite magistrate that we’re going to need a warrant soon. Oh, and I suggest that you don’t ask Whittard if she is comfortable working on this case unless you intend her to believe that you doubt her ability to manage workplace stress.”

Greg left his office and went to replenish his coffee before calling his staff to order, taking the note off Whittart’s monitor in passing.

***

What followed was sixty odd hours of absolute chaos, with nothing like enough sleep and far too much coffee. Sherlock had been more driven than Greg had seen him in a very long time, exploiting every lead and piece of evidence to its fullest, and overturning the many mistakes made by Bradstreet and his officers in investigating the first death. 

By the time Greg got home with his third-rate curry and still-banging headache, the murderer was in custody and Greg had three of his own team awaiting disciplinary action for sexist and transphobic comments. He’d heard some ignorant shit from Bradstreet’s lot in the early stages of their investigation, but he had hoped that the way that had been stamped on would have served as a warning to his team; he had been disappointed. Whittard, Donovan, and Kapoor, however, had really shown their worth. He smiled to himself, thinking of Donovan’s withering put down when Jenkins had opined that a woman couldn’t possibly hang ‘someone who’s basically a man’, and opened his first bottle of London Pride. 

There was, however, something that hadn’t stopped bothering since his first conversation with Sherlock about the cases: he just could not figure out what had got the bugger so interested. It wasn’t unusual for Greg to enter his office and find Sherlock sticking his nose into cold cases when he had nothing better to do, but to show up for something that barely rated a five on his scale, to adhere faithfully to chain of evidence procedures, and then actually sit and do the paperwork with a minimum of swanning around? That was unique in his dealings with the world’s only consulting detective. 

He still hadn’t solved the question of what it was about these mundane cases in particular had piqued Sherlock’s interest by the time he had given up on his chewy curry and dry rice and progressed to his fourth bottle. Given his exhaustion and lack of proper food over the last few days, it didn’t surprise him that he was struggling to keep his focus, but it was frustrating nonetheless. He was sure that it was right there, staring him in the face, but the harder he looked at it, the less distinct it became. The only thing that marked these murders out from any other case he’d had since Sherlock’s return from the not dead was that the victims were transgender, but what would Sherlock Holmes, of all people, care about — 

“No…” Greg said to himself, as those words rearranged themselves in his mind, and set his empty bottle carefully on the coffee table with the detritus of his curry. “I’d know, wouldn’t I?” The more he thought about it, the more sense it began to make. Despite the drink, Greg’s copper’s mind rebooted, unable to find a puzzle and not give solving it his very best shot. The number of people Sherlock cared about - _genuinely_ cared about - could be counted on the fingers of both hands with a few fingers’ change, and Greg was confident that he knew all of them. 

Mentally running through Sherlock’s chosen few, he quickly discounted his parents and Mrs Hudson, and then Molly after a bit of thought. Consideration was given to John’s height but the possibility was quickly ruled out given what Greg knew of the man. Mary, though, was definitely a possibility. The more he thought about Mary, the more another thought took hold: Mary was the warm and friendly type, and Greg knew a young trans woman in the very early stages of treatment, going through hell with her family and shedding friends. If he could put her in touch with someone he knew and trusted, someone who had been through it and gone on to have a normal life, then surely he’d be stupid not to. The more he thought about it, the more his alcohol-addled mind decided that it was the best idea he’d had since leaving his cow of an ex-wife, and it was with this mission in mind that he fell asleep on his sofa for the third time in five days.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg was five minutes late by the he time had managed to fight his way out of Tube station and dash down the road to the restaurant for his fortnightly dinner with Mycroft, but the promise of good company, decent wine, and the best steak in London was more than enough to make the frustrations of London’s idiosyncratic transport system more than worth the hassle. 

Turned out as impeccably as ever, Mycroft greeted Greg with what, for him, was a warm smile. “Congratulations. Most of your contemporaries would have dismissed them both as suicides.”

“Thanks,” Greg grinned, taking his seat. He really was proud of the work they’d all done on that case, even if it had tripped him head long down a rabbit hole. “I knew my case wasn’t suicide from the off, so it made sense to question the first death. Sherlock played an absolute blinder, though.” He picked up the menu and glanced over it even though he had the rib-eye steak every time, and attempted to sound casual. “I don’t know what got into him; he even did his paperwork without me having to threaten him.” 

“How remarkable. Perhaps he is finally growing up.”

The thought of Sherlock growing up drew a snort from Greg. “Yeah, I’m not holding my breath. Not after what I saw him doing with a pair of kidneys last week.”

“Perhaps he is attempting to make a point.”

"Yeah, but since when does he give a shit about trans rights?” Greg asked, hoping that a direct question would get him the information he wanted. “Him recognising even basic human rights is unusual."

"That could well be the point. You know that his relationship with John has yet to recover fully."

Greg mentally added a tick in the ‘Mary’ column at Mycroft’s words. “He's seeming more himself now, though. Not talking to an imaginary John or smacking himself around the head, anyway." 

"Mm. Little as I like the man, he is good for Sherlock in some respects." Mycroft glanced around and apparently magically summoned a waiter.

"Are you _ever_ going to tell me how you do that?”

"Alas, it is a natural talent. It simply can't be taught." Mycroft turned to their waiter and quickly ordered a four course meal with appropriate wines for both of them, and Greg could almost feel his mouth watering in anticipation. He didn’t know what half of what Mycroft had ordered was, but the other man hadn’t ordered badly once in their ten year friendship. 

“So, how are you?” Greg asked as the waiter departed. It had been a difficult couple of months between Sherlock’s return and the attempt on John’s life, but aside from tired-looking eyes, Mycroft looked well. 

"Somewhat troubled by noise in the system around civil defence."

It was unusual for Mycroft to admit being troubled by anything other than his wayward brother, and Greg frowned knowing that it really must be serious. "That doesn't sound good.”

"Granting the police military powers? No,” Mycroft replied uneasily. "I've made my views known, of course, but the Prime Minister is notoriously as obstinate as a pig, and unreasoningly devoted to his advisors."

“The Prime Minister’s an absolute twat,” Greg said with conviction. “They don’t fund us well enough to properly use the powers we’ve already got, never mind giving us more. I keep emailing my MP about the state of police funding, but I might as well be emailing the bloke who owns the shop under my flat for all the notice they take of people actually doing the job.” A half-forgotten rumour about their current PM surfaced and Greg couldn’t restrain a smile. “Is it true that he fucked a pig’s head?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Mycroft toyed with his water glass and Greg was _sure_ there was something mischievous around his eyes. "One has to wonder where these rumours start, however."

Greg’s smile widened into a grin. “A disgruntled civil servant, I’d say.”

"Again, Detective Inspector, I couldn't possibly comment,” Mycroft replied. and deftly redirected the conversation smoothly enough that Greg barely registered him doing it. 

The wine flowed and by the time their starters had arrived Greg found himself telling Mycroft all about his plans for his upcoming days off, which largely consisted of catching up with his girls and the football, and finally making a start on decorating his bathroom - eighteen months after he’d bought the place, but better late than never - and he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Mycroft had always had that effect on him, even back in the early days, which was one of the many reasons Greg had been so keen to keep in touch, even when Mycroft had still been insisting that he did not 'do' friends. 

Their desserts arrived before too long, but not without a pang of sadness for Greg, who wanted their time to end less and less with each meeting. “You’re sure you’re, alright, though?” he asked, gesturing with a forkful of the most sinful chocolate cake he’d eaten. “And none of your diversion tactics, thank you. I _do_ know when you've done that.”

Mycroft smiled fondly. "Perfectly sure, thank you. I do take care of myself, Greg - and even if I didn't, Chloe and her minions would."

"That's a very stressful job you've got and I don't think I've ever known you to take a holiday. That can’t be good for you."

"I don't spend weeks at a time sunning myself in Torremolinos, admittedly, but I do have some 'down time',” Mycroft replied patiently, and Greg was unable to resist a smile at the thought of Mycroft in tiny shorts, sunning himself on a beach.

"It takes me damned sight more than some down time to unwind after a bad week, and I know for a fact that your job's more stressful than mine,” Greg insisted, tone serious despite his slight preoccupation with thoughts of Mycroft on a beach. 

Mycroft’s left eyebrow made it clear that he had deduced what was on Greg’s mind, and the older man felt his cheeks heat slightly. "There is one crucial distinction between us, Greg. I am a psychopath, and very, very good at compartmentalising. When I put a thing out of my mind, it really does cease to nag at me."

It wasn’t the first time Mycroft had said as much and Greg doubted that it would be the last, but knowing that did nothing to prevent him from worrying about his friend. “Yeah, well, as long as you’re happy.”

“I am perfectly content. I promise you.”

“Good. You just tell me if you need anything,” Greg replied, not believing that Mycroft would. They’d been having the same conversation for almost ten years, and Greg was yet to receive one request for anything other than a dinner companion. He polished off the last of his chocolate cake and sat back with satisfaction. “That was amazing.”

"I'm glad you enjoyed it.” Mycroft set his own cutlery down carefully and regarded him seriously. “Are you alright, Greg? Forgive me, but the tone of your conversation tonight suggests a degree of perturbation."

Greg hesitated. Things had been more than a bit rough recently, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that Mycroft knew that, but none of the things bothering him were things Mycroft could fix, and he didn’t want to end a wonderful evening on a downer. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said after a moment. “It’s just been a hell of a week.” When Mycroft nodded sympathetically and did not press Greg continued, “I’m going to make a start on my bathroom tomorrow. I know I’ve been telling you that since I bought the place, but I’ve actually bought the paint this time.” 

"You have. I do wish you'd let me arrange it for you,” Mycroft replied, and Greg fancied there was more than a hint of resignation there. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Greg asked, smiling playfully.

Mycroft returned his smile, rehashing a discussion they had had many times over the last eighteen months. “So you keep saying.”

As much as Greg didn’t want their evening together to end, they had both finished their meals and one of the waiters was hovering impatiently at the periphery of Greg’s vision. “I think that waiter’s after our table; shall we get off?”

To Greg’s amusement and delight, Mycroft gave the waiter the kind of look that had earned him the name Antarctica and the young man fled in the direction of the kitchen. “Perhaps coffee?”

“You sure you’ve got time?” Greg asked, aware that it was already later than most of their evenings ran to. Mycroft was a busy, important man, and it still came as a surprise that he chose to spend time with his brother’s pet detective.

“Of course.” Mycroft glanced at a passing waitress and an order for coffee and brandy was soon placed.

As they drank their coffee and then brandy, Greg reflected that a night with a good friend had been a welcome change. He lived for the weekends, when he had his girls at home, but weekdays consisted almost wholly of work and nights in with his TV and a bottle. “Thanks for this,” he said after several minutes’ comfortable silence. He swirled that last of his brandy around his glass meditatively. “It was exactly what I needed.”

"I'm glad to hear it,” Mycroft replied with, what was for him, a soft smile. “Someone needs to take care of you."

Greg refrained from offering him the job full-time by the skin of his teeth. He’d made that offer twice since his divorce, and, though his feelings for his friend hadn’t changed, he knew he was in no position to be any kind of a boyfriend now even if Mycroft had miraculously changed his mind. “I’ll have you know I can even make my own packed lunches now,” he said instead, consciously injecting levity into his voice. 

"I value our friendship; I wouldn't want to jeopardise it.” The gentle reiteration of past conversations had Greg’s cheeks heating at how easily the other man had seen straight through him. "And goodness only knows how Sherlock would react."

“You don’t have to explain yourself; no means no and I respect that. I’m sorry you had to tell me twice,” Greg replied, watching the way the light bounced off the last of his brandy so as not to have to look at Mycroft. 

“It's alright. Rather flattering, actually; you are a singularly beautiful man."

Uncomfortable, Greg redirected the conversation with nothing like Mycroft’s skill, latching desperately onto the fleeting comment about Sherlock. "I doubt he even knows we still meet up, you know, and if he does he'll think it's so I can spy on him for you."

Mycroft’s eye-roll was audible. "Oh, he most assuredly does. He's warned me off you several times already. You're _his_ friend." 

“Has he really?” Greg laughed, relieved that the uncomfortable moment had passed. He was one of the few people privileged to know that the Holmes boys were closer than they appeared to be, and he had witnessed brotherly squabbling more than once; he could just imagine Sherlock having a strop about Mycroft trying to steal his friends, or toys, or remove the toxic waste from his kitchen.

"Oh, he did, but it's hardly surprising: you know how territorial the brat is." 

Years of friendship allowed Greg to hear the fondness behind Mycroft’s words and he smiled. "He is, but he really was incredible on those cases, and the only person he turned nasty on was one of Bradstreet's lot.” He paused, thinking of some of that crap that had come out of that idiot’s mouth, and continued, “Frankly, he had it coming, though.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Mycoft replied, patently pleased, and Greg was struck by how much things had changed in the last decade. Even five years ago, it was more likely than not that Greg would be delivering bad news about the younger brother Mycroft was devoted to, and Greg could fully understand his friend’s pride in Sherlock’s progress.

“It was great to see, too, even if only because I didn’t have a queue of pissed off coppers outside my office at the end of the day.”

“Let us hope that it continues.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Greg raised his glass in toast and finished his brandy. “Are you going to take anything off me for this?”

Mycroft smiled in the way that Greg had come to interpret as ‘don’t be daft’ and finished his own drink. "Will you allow me to have a car take you home, or will you insist on making your own way again?" Mycroft said by way of answer, and Greg gave it up as a bad job; he’d sent him money to cover their meals many times, but it was always back in his own account within minutes of landing in Mycroft’s. 

“Nah, there fresh air’ll do me good. Well, London’s version of it, anyway.” Greg shrugged into his leather jacket and checked that his phone, wallet, and keys were still in his pockets. “It doesn’t take long by Tube, anyway.”

Mycroft inclined his head in acquiescence and their evening together came to an end. Greg watched with a lingering sadness as the younger man disappeared into the back of one of his fancy cars, but ambled off in the direction of the nearest Tube station, mind already drifting to a nightcap and bed.

***

By eleven o’clock the next morning, Greg had been up and hard at work painting his bathroom for a couple of hours, the last vestiges of his headache and queasiness easing under the influence of Lucozade, paracetamol, and a full English - courtesy of Mycroft, delivered by one of his terrifying assistants with a note asking him to eat it to spare the rest of the staff one of Chef’s ‘moments’. He stood back and squinted at the window wall critically, checking for patchy spots, and was pleased with the even coverage he saw. Not a bad job for someone who hadn’t wielded a paint brush in over a year, he decided, and turned his efforts to the wall abutting his small shower cubicle.

Half an hour later, satisfied with his efforts, he washed his hands and fished his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans to take a picture for Mycroft. _See I told you I’d do it,_ he sent with the picture. 

Just as that message sent, another landed, this one from John. _Fancy a pint at the Lion?_ Greg smiled to himself, hoping that this was a sign that John was going to be more involved in Sherlock’s life again. It wasn’t the first time John had initiated contact with Greg since Sherlock’s apparent suicide, but it was the first time he’d suggested meeting up for a pint like they had before their lives had fallen apart. There weren’t many people who could understand the insanity that inevitably followed being caught up in the Holmes boys’ orbits, but John was one of them, and Greg had missed his company keenly in the aftermath. Greg’s overwhelming guilt for his part in Sherlock’s ‘death’ had been crippling for several months, and by the time he felt like he could look John in the eye he has been going through a messy divorce and he’d decided that there was too much water under the bridge to initiate contact.

Feeling both hopeful and relieved, he replied, _Yeah good idea. 6:30 to catch the match?_

A reply came in the affirmative and Greg slipped his phone back into his pocket and went to get a bottle of beer. It might have taken him eighteen months to get around to decorating his bathroom, but he was damned if it wasn’t going to be finished before he left to meet John now that he’d started, and anything that made it easier was all to the good in his book.

***

Greg got to the Lion a little short of an hour early and bagged the corner table with the best view of the large screen. There was nothing like a pint in a decent pub after a day of graft, and for all that his bathroom wasn’t particularly large, decorating it hadn’t been quite the easy job he’d been anticipating. The Lion was one of Greg’s favourite pubs on this side of London; off the beaten path enough that it tended to avoid the attention of City boys and tourists, most of the tables were sited so that they had a good view of the big screen, and it even had a couple of pool tables. Not that Greg was particularly good at pool, having been more interested in playing for his local football team in his younger days, but he found it oddly reassuring to know that they were there.

His first pint took the edge off the frustration that had built up when the young girls in the seats opposite him on the train just would not stop chattering about Love Island, and by the time John arrived an hour later he was half way down his third. With one eye on the pre-match waffle on screen and his other on the door, he spotted John as soon as the other man entered the pub and waved. 

Idly watching as John acknowledged him and made his way to the bar - with minimal need for elbows thanks to it being a weeknight - Greg’s mind returned to his recent musings about who in Sherlock’s circle was trans. Mycroft hadn’t shed any real light on the question, but Greg hadn’t expected him to because his interest in people who were not Sherlock was largely limited to how useful they were. His drink with John, however, presented a brilliant opportunity to dig into Sherlock’s social life.

As John made his way to the table with his pint, Greg mentally ruled the other man out; he was was a good fit height-wise, but knowing what he did of the atmosphere towards LGBT people in the police, never mind the armed forces, he seriously doubted that John would have been able to last as long as he had on the frontline in the late nineties and early two thousands, if he’d even been allowed to serve on the frontline at all. 

“Good to see you, mate,” he said by way of greeting when John arrived at their table.

"You, too. Getting a head start there?" John asked with a nod to the empty glasses. 

“Nah, they were on the table when I got here.” Uncomfortable with how easily lying came when it came to his drinking habits, Greg waved his glass at the big screen, where the players were starting to assemble on the pitch. "Who's your money on? I should be saying Arsenal, but after last week's fiasco..." 

John snorted. “Yeah, that was embarrassing. I've got to say City; they're on form at the moment. So are you, from what Sherlock's saying. Played a blinder on one that hasn't hit the papers yet."

There was something in John’s gaze that put Greg’s back up slightly, but he couldn’t pin down what it was. “I knew my case was murder, but Sherlock worked the magic on that. I’d’ve made the connection but not for at least another day or so.” He sipped his drink and smiled, remembering Sherlock sitting there actually doing his damned paperwork. “I didn’t even have to threaten him to get the ‘boring’ bits done.”

“He likes your team at the moment, too. Kapoor and Whittard, yeah?” John paused to drink. “First time I've heard him talk about any of them as competent."

"Yeah, we've got some good new blood coming through now." Privately, Greg hoped that the new blood coming in would flush some of the old out. It had taken him and Donovan a long time to get back to anything like a decent working relationship after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’, and he could put a good face on it, but he suspected that they’d both be glad when she eventually passed her inspector exams and moved on to DI in another team. “So, how’s Mary and the wedding plans?” he asked, diverting to pleasanter topics. 

What followed was a good ten minutes of John waxing lyrical about the wonders of Mary, and Greg was so glad to see the other man happy after everything he’d been through that he was helpless to do anything but smile and make encouraging sounds. John covered everything from her looks to her skill at work to how much fun she was, and he was all but _glowing_.

“So, are you planning kids?” he asked when John paused to drink.

Of all the smiles John had smiled since he’d started talking about Mary, this was the sappiest yet. "Yeah, definitely. Not immediately, obviously, but yeah. Complete the family, you know. Pass on the family name."

“I’m really happy for you, mate; you deserve it. You’ll make a great dad,” Greg replied with a smile, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. Divorcing Jo had been the right thing to do, but only having Leah and Maddie at the weekend _hurt_. "I miss my two something rotten since the divorce, but I never stood a chance of getting sole custody, not with working full time. My ex's solicitor would have ripped me to shreds if I'd tried."

Something in John’s expression shifted and Greg suddenly acutely aware that he was sitting opposite a GP. "I hate to ask, but do you really think that's the only reason?" He held up a hand to forestall Greg’s indignant response and continued, "I'm not trying to be funny with you, mate, but you do like a drink. Even back before Sherlock's not-suicide I knew you had a problem." He looked pointedly at the collection of empties on the table. "They consider all that stuff."

Immediately on the defensive, Greg frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with liking a drink.”

"No, but there comes a point when it isn't so much 'liking' as 'needing'. Can you honestly say you haven't got there?"

John’s expression and tone were simultaneously kind and serious, but Greg still felt his hackles rising nonetheless. “Some days, maybe, yeah, but it wasn’t like that back then.”

Apparently not to be deterred, John pressed on. "How many have you had today?"

"I —" Greg hesitated and realised that he wasn’t going to get away with lying, not when he’d already been rumbled about the empty glasses on the table. "That's my third pint and I had a couple of bottles doing my bathroom."

“So that’s how many units?”

Mentally totting them up, Greg got as far as ‘too fucking many’ and snapped, “I’m not at work, I’m not driving, and the kids are with their mum, so the units don’t matter.” When it became obvious that John was waiting for something else, Greg raised his glass and drank defiantly. “I’m allowed a few drinks in my down time, John. God knows I work hard enough.”

"I know you do. What about the bottle in your desk drawer?"

A sudden rush of anger replacing the discomfort and embarrassment was almost refreshing. “I expect Sherlock poking around in my office, but not you.”

"Sherlock told me, mate." John sighed. "I'm worried, okay? You are not okay. You're visibly not okay. At this rate, it's not going to be long until someone at work has this conversation with you, and this GP believes that you'd be best off getting on top of it before that happens."

“I’m fine, trust me,” Greg implored, wondering when the hell their nice drink and catch-up had gone to pot. “That bottle’s just — look, it’s nothing to worry about.”

John’s expression told Greg that he’d heard that too many times and his cheeks flushed. 

“I know I look a bit shit right now, but I’ve just had nearly three days of chaos with Himself, and I’m not as young as I used to be. You know exactly what he’s like when he’s on a mission.”

"I see enough people your age to be able to take that sort of thing into account. I may not have Sherlock's brain, but I'm a bloody good doctor; I know when I'm looking at a functional alcoholic."

Those last words hit Greg like a hammer. “I’m not a fucking alcoholic!” he snapped, shame at the suggestion burning brightly. “Is this why you wanted to meet up?”

"No, it isn't; I wanted to see my mate. But doctors are like coppers: we're never really off duty."

Greg’s anger wilted in the face of John’s reasonableness and he deflated. “Right, yeah,” he replied, understanding that. “I’m sorry.”

“You going to let me get you an orange juice?” John was smiling warmly and everything about him said that this was a friend being there for him, but Greg was absolutely mortified. He was appalled by how far that conversation had spun out of his control and wanted nothing more than for the floor to open and swallow him. John reached out and squeezed his wrist. "I'm not trying to be a dick; I'm trying to be a friend."

It took real effort for Greg to get control, but he managed it and nodded. “An orange’d be great, thanks.”

"I'm not going to say anything else about it now, except this: if you don't believe me, talk to Mycroft. If I'm wrong, he'll be the first to say so.” John gave him an easy smile and ambled off in the direction of the bar. 

Breathing deeply as John disappeared into the crowd, Greg dropped his face into his hands and tried to calm himself down. That had _definitely_ not been expected, and he didn’t have a clue what to do with it. His ex-wife had made a few sharp comments in the latter years of their marriage, and he’d been avoiding looking too closely at his drinking habits recently, but to have it brought to a head like that had been truly painful, coming from someone who meant well or not. 

The noise of the pub around him faded into the background as John’s words replayed in a loop. _’I know when I’m looking at a functional alcoholic.’_ Christ, he could even recognise the expression on John’s face as he first approached the table, now: surprise and disappointment and concern. One deep breath followed another but did nothing, so he took hold of fistfuls of hair and pulled. The pain worked where the breathing exercises hadn’t, and, with a concerted effort, Greg pulled himself together just in time to see John making his way back from the bar, a glass of orange in one hand and something clear in the other. 

“Thanks, mate,” Greg said with a false smile as John put his orange down in front of him. He picked it up, ignoring the remnants of his pint, and drank. He felt oddly like he was going to fall apart at the seams and cast around for something - _anything_ \- to serve as a distraction. “So, how’re you doing with the whole ‘not dead’ thing?” he asked, almost desperately.

It was a weak effort and something they’d already talked about in the time since Sherlock’s return, but John smiled, apparently content to go along with it. “We’re getting there.”

“It was a hell of a shock, that. The bastard just appeared behind me in a car park and carried on like nothing’d happened.”

“Wasn’t it?” John asked with a shake of his head. “The shit he puts us through…”

Greg hesitated for a moment. “It’s good to have you back around, mate. I’ve missed you.”

To his amusement, John appeared to be as uncomfortable receiving the comment as Greg had been delivering it, but sometimes these things needed saying, manly or not. "Yeah, you too. Good to have someone to talk to who gets... well, Sherlock."

“Yeah,” Greg said, smiling widely. “They're a whole different level of crazy. Until you've been there you can't understand." He sipped his orange, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. "What did you make of Molly's new fella? I'd say she's definitely got a type."

"At least this one's not a sociopath?" He shook his head and sipped his lemonade. "Yeah, poor kid. You'd think she'd have taken the hint by now."

"I, for one, won't be surprised if it turns out that he's got kiddies' bodies buried in his back garden, just going on past form.” 

"Oh, god, don't! Can you imagine Sherlock if he does?" John asked, appalled and amused in equal measure. 

Greg grinned, because he _could_. "He'd be fucking delighted."

"He'd be fucking awful."

“Well, yeah, there is that,” Greg agreed. He frowned to himself, thinking about Molly. He knew exactly how easy it was to fall for a Holmes, but she had definitely picked the worst of the two; Mycroft had at least been kind about putting Greg out of his misery. “She deserves better,” he said reflectively. “But she needs to get over himself first and I don’t think she’s there.”

John shook his head. “I’m not sure that she ever will.”

“You never know. She might’ve picked better this time.” Suddenly shifty, Greg case furtive glances to the left and right to make sure that they were not being overheard. "I, ah, might have background checked this one, and he seems sound enough, even if I _am_ still half expecting dead bodies."

That surprised a laugh out of John. “Good on you; she needs looking after.”

“Hmm,” Greg agreed around a mouthful of orange juice. “With taste like that she needs all the help she can get.”

“With any luck this one only _looks_ like himself.”

“Amen to that,” Greg said with feeling, raising his glass in toast. “One Sherlock’s more than enough.”

“I’ll drink to that,” John replied, raising his glass. “So, what do you make of Everton’s new goalie?”

Just like that, the pain and embarrassment of mere minutes ago was almost a thing of the past, and Greg gratefully latched onto the new topic.

***

Greg let himself into his flat three hours later, dropped his keys into the bowel on the coffee table, and put the kettle on. His eyes were compellingly drawn to the third cupboard on the left, which was home to his impressive booze collection, but John’s words came back to him. _I know a functional alcoholic when I see one._

“I’m not an alcoholic,” he told the kettle as steam started pouring from the spout, adding coffee, sugar, and milk to the nearest relatively clean mug. “I’m _not_.”

The coffee didn’t have much to say for itself but the aroma was reassuring and Greg was desperate and willing to take what he could get. “Biscuits, definitely biscuits,” he muttered and snagged the half full packet of chocolate Hobnobs in passing. Chocolate. Chocolate would help.

Unable to tolerate silence when he had so much noise in his mind, he put the telly on for some meaningless background noise and sprawled on the sofa with his coffee and biscuits. No matter what else he thought about, however, his mind kept meandering back to his conversation with John. He wasn’t an alcoholic, was he? He liked a drink, yeah, and he always slept better after a few, but it wasn’t like it was affecting him at work or stopping him doing things. _No_ , he decided, _John’s got the wrong end of the stick._

Attempting to put that aside, Greg turned his attention to the one benefit his night in the pub with John had had: he was confident that John had ruled Mary out as the transgender person in Sherlock’s circle when he’d gone all doe-eyed about trying for a child. As amazing as some of the recent medical advances had doubtlessly been, he was sure he’d have heard if trans women could give birth. Of course, he still had no idea who it was, but one person ruled out was a step closer to the right answer, surely. Turning the problem over in his mind, Greg lifted his mug to his mouth and frowned when it wasn’t what he wanted, and the need for a proper drink was suddenly overwhelming. His resolve lasted a moment longer but then he muttered, “Fuck it,” and got up. He was a grown man and he could have a damned drink if he wanted one, whatever John thought he knew. 

Greg was soon back on the sofa with his good scotch, brutally silencing the voice in his head telling him that John was a doctor and knew _exactly_ what he was talking about. On top of what he’d had earlier, it didn’t take long for the alcohol to work its magic; the odd writhing at his core which had started nagging at him as soon he’d decided on coffee rather than scotch started to ease, taking tension that he had barely noticed building with it. Idly, flipping through the sport channels, Greg mentally returned to his puzzle and started working through Sherlock’s remaining nearest and dearest, considering what he knew about them in turn. 

Though the scotch definitely helped to relax him, Greg was disappointed when it did nothing to help him see his problem more clearly. He’d had many ideas that had broken cases open after a few drinks in his office at arse o’clock, and he’d been half hoping for the same again. Half an hour later he was definitely well on his way to pissed, but still no closer to unravelling the mystery, and at that point decided that it was time to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to work it out himself. That, however, did not mean that he was ready to give up - a good detective never gave up on a mystery when there were other avenues to be explored, and it suddenly occurred to Greg that there was one blindingly obvious option he had overlooked: he could just ask Sherlock. After all, the younger man knew what Whittard was going through with her own transition and had even seemed sympathetic. Going out of his way to help someone might not be in Sherlock’s nature, but if Greg was going to do the legwork, he might just go for it. He dithered briefly over how to word his request, but quickly decided that direct was the way to go, and fired off a text.

Not much surprised Greg about Sherlock after so many years of working with him, but getting a phone call from him within seconds of sending a text was unheard of. His phone, however, was definitely lit up and vibrating, and that was definitely Sherlock’s name on the screen. 

“Why do you assume that you have a right to that information?” Sherlock demanded icily by way of greeting as soon as the call connected. 

The sharp tone took Greg by surprise. “I —” 

“The answer you’re looking for is that you don’t have the right to know, Lestrade. Your prurient curiosity will have to remain unsatisfied.”

“No, that’s not —”

“This is none of your business,” Sherlock interrupted, enunciating clearly. “The person in question has not trusted you with this information, so I suggest that you take that as a hint.”

Feeling attacked and flustered, Greg raised his voice to defend himself. “Will you just listen to me?” When Sherlock didn’t immediately jump on him, Greg continued, “I know it’s none of my business, but when I realised why you had a bee in your bonnet about that case I started thinking about Whittard and —”

“Stop,” Sherlock sighed, now more resigned than irritated. “One, Whittard knows where her support is, so I suggest that you stop fussing before you make her uncomfortable. Two, why would you assume that any transgender person would want to sacrifice their right to privacy in order to act as a mentor to your sergeant? Perhaps I should start giving your name and phone number to any closeted police officers I meet, if that’s the case.” 

“Don’t you bloody dare!” Greg snapped, stung. Why this conversation had gone to hell he didn’t know, but his frantic mental scrambling for a way to get it on track proved fruitless. “Anyway I’m not closeted. I told you, didn’t I? And my close friends know.”

“ You admitted that I was right after I told you that I knew: that isn’t the same thing.” 

Greg squirmed at the amusement in Sherlock’s tone and was very glad that this conversation was being conducted over the phone when his face heated. “That’s irrelevant, so drop it.”

“You want to out a transgender person who has chosen not to broadcast their past, but defend your own right to privacy where your sexuality is concerned.” Sherlock’s words were positively dripping with sarcasm and Greg was suddenly awash with shame as he realised what Sherlock was getting at. “Yes, completely irrelevant.”

“Right, yeah,” Greg replied as Sherlock’s points hit home. “When you put it like that.”

“Quite. I trust that you’ll leave your little mystery alone, now.”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Greg agreed, hoping he didn’t sound as embarrassed as he felt. It had been a long time since Sherlock had made him feel so bloody stupid, and he wasn’t enjoying the experience. “Can we just forget this conversation happened?”

“Oh, I think you know me better than that,” Sherlock drawled, patently amused, and Greg knew this was definitely not last he’d heard of this. “Go to bed, Lestrade.”

The line went dead and Greg dropped his phone onto the cushion beside himself with a mortified groan. “Fuck,” he said to the empty room, knowing that the last thing he’d needed was give Sherlock ammunition to use the next time he felt thwarted. Long moments passed as Greg endured a surround sound replay of the entire conversation, complete with commentary in Sherlock’s most scathing tone. There was absolutely no escaping from it: he was an idiot, and he was just glad that he’d asked Sherlock directly rather than attempting to snoop further and risk offending someone with his ignorance and entitlement. “Bed,” he muttered after ten minutes of mental circling, deciding that Sherlock was right about that, too.

*** 

It had been two weeks since his mortifying late night chat with Sherlock, and Greg had been going out of his way to avoid him. His current case was, however, proving to be something of a nightmare; three days into the investigation and their prime suspect had both motive and the kind of aura that screamed that he was deeply dodgy, but he also had a cast iron alibi and a spotless record: even _Donovan_ had asked if it was time to bring Sherlock in. 

Having been unable to argue with her logic, and in the knowledge that they weren’t getting any further with the evidence or resources they had, Greg had reluctantly agreed. That didn’t mean that getting him involved was easy, of course; so far Sherlock had ignored fifteen text messages, eleven emails, and eight phone calls, which was why Greg found himself unlocking the door to 221b Baker Street at five thirty on a warm and humid Thursday afternoon. “Sherlock!” he called, giving the other man warning of the impending invasion as he neared the top of the stairs. “I hope you’ve got your pants on this time!”

Opening the flat’s front door, Greg was pleasantly surprised to find not just one Holmes, but the older one, too. Mycroft, perfectly turned out as ever in one of his debonair suits, was sitting opposite Sherlock, who was draped artfully in a stained sheet with what looked like only half of his hair combed, and a comb was lying on the floor between them. Greg grinned, not needing to have been a fly on the wall to put together the pieces of what had happened together, but something about Sherlock’s demeanour caught his attention. If asked what it had been, Greg would have been unable to pin it down, but a barely there _something_ crossed Sherlock’s expression, and it was enough for Greg’s copper’s instinct to do the rest. Snippets of their last conversation and their most recent case together flashed through Greg’s mind, along with his realisation that there must be a transgender person in Sherlock’s circle, and everything clicked into place. 

Unsure if he should say something or let the moment pass, Greg looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. His mind abuzz with half-formed questions, it was his mouth that made the decision for him, and apparently chose the least appropriate question it possibly could. “Is this why you turned me down?” 

“Your goldfish is learning, brother mine,” Sherlock said approvingly, rising from his chair - without losing his sheet - to sweep in the direction of his bedroom.

Apparently unfazed by Sherlock’s antics, Mycroft regarded Greg calmly. “In part, yes.”

Greg dropped into Sherlock’s newly-vacated chair, his body ready for a break after three days of running around fruitlessly. “It wouldn’t’ve made any difference to me. It _doesn’t_ make any difference to me.” He fiddled with his folder nervously as his mind tied itself in knots; on the one hand he’d absorbed what Sherlock had said about this being none of his business, but on the other this was one of his best friends, a man who Greg had trusted to see him at his lowest who apparently did not reciprocate that trust. “What was the other part?”

"I have other secrets. You dislike being lied to." Mycroft glanced at the folder in Greg’s lap. "Talk to the milkman."

Greg frowned at the diversion. “We have; he didn’t see anything and his tracker has him two streets over when we think she was murdered,” he replied, shifting the folder in his lap. “I’ve been thinking it was the boyfriend but we’ve got less than nothing to go on.”

“No, the _other_ milkman,” Mycroft replied, and Greg almost smiled at the shades of Sherlock he could hear. 

“We haven’t _found_ another milkman, and I’ll be laughed out of the Met if I try to haul in every milkman Hackney in for questioning,” Greg replied, wondering if he and Mycroft weren’t having two different conversations.

Mycroft sighed. "Go to number sixty seven. They have a different service.”

“Right.” Long experience with the Holmes brothers had taught Greg to be patient with their seemingly random pronouncements, but it was still occasionally an effort to refrain from throttling them. “Am I talking to him as a witness or my murderer?”

"As a witness. He will direct you to a leafletter, who will name a painter and decorator, whose girlfriend's best friend is the contract killer who is your murderer." Apparently seeing the disbelief on Greg’s face, Mycroft continued, "London is a surprisingly small world."

“You’re having me on!” 

Mycroft arched his left eyebrow. "I am not known for my whimsical practical jokes.”

“Well, no, but why would a contract killer go after a Hackney prostitute?” Greg asked, hopelessly out of his depth. 

"Because her boyfriend paid him to, albeit not in money."

“She must’ve had something serious on him, then. I mean, I know she wanted out of the lifestyle because we’ve found a lots of contact between her and an organisation that helps sex workers get out, but people don’t hire hit men because of that.” Scratching his jaw thoughtfully, Greg tried to force this new information into something resembling order. “Who the fuck’s he connected to, anyway? I thought he was a bit _too_ clean considering he was going out with a working girl, but finding hit men who don’t leave much evidence takes some serious connections.” 

Mycroft steepled his long fingers and regarded Greg evenly. "He facilitates the money laundering arm of the people-trafficking ring supplying the farmers of the marijuana he uses. Coincidentally, they also supply nail technicians to the nail bar his girlfriend uses. One of the new prostitutes on her patch patronises the same establishment - many of them do, of course, but this one used to be the girlfriend of a perfectly innocent line cook in a rather good Vietnamese restaurant, and learned a little of the language from his mother. She discovered the trafficking, and the girls subsequently discussed it. Your victim also, regrettably, mentioned it to her boyfriend." Mycroft paused and Greg took the opportunity to attempt to process that. "She was entirely unaware of his connection. He naturally mentioned it to his contact, who instructed him to deal with her, hence the milkman."

The pause had been nothing like long enough to unpick that, but Greg thought he had the gist of it and decided against asking Mycroft to repeat himself. He glanced down at his bog standard Manila folder, seeing no possible way even Mycroft could get all of that from a plain folder. 

"I was informed of your case and I made enquiries,” Mycroft said, amused, and Greg felt himself flush slightly. Sherlock had said that Mycroft kept tabs on things like that, but Greg had never applied that to himself and his work. "The larger ring is being dismantled, but your prey will be left for you."

“Thank you,” Greg replied, knowing immediately that he was going with the new lead, as crazy as it sounded: only idiots ignored Holmesian advice, and, whatever Sherlock had to say on the matter, he was not an idiot. “For the lead _and_ leaving us something to go at; I hate having to tell my team to roll over for spooks.”

Mycroft smiled thinly and Greg suddenly felt incredibly awkward for the first time since the early days of their friendship. “Right, well, I should get back. Murderer to catch and all that.” He stood but hesitated before moving, struggling briefly for the right words. “I meant it, Mycroft,” he said after a long moment. “There’s no difference at all. I’m sorry I made you believe it’d be an issue, but I promise you that it’s not.”

"Gay men are not known for their tolerance of us. Nor are the police. Nor are men of your age and background. Irrespective of their general decency and compassion in other areas." Greg felt each word like a hammer blow but stayed silent when Mycroft paused, his mind reeling. "And there are the other considerations."

“Yeah, well, this gay middle-aged copper isn’t a transphobe or a dickhead,” Greg replied, fighting to keep his voice level and suddenly desperate to leave. Surely to Christ Mycroft knew him better than — but, no, apparently not. “I’ll happily arrest any you come across, though.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Mycroft replied with a faint smile. 

Greg made it as far as the door before Mycroft said his name. He stopped and turned, finding Mycroft watching him intently. “Yeah?”

"Can you accept there are secrets I must keep and questions I cannot answer truthfully?"

Greg tightened his grip on the folder as another blow landed. "We've been friends for ten years and I haven't once asked for secrets or for you to do me favours, Mycroft.” A sudden buzzing from his pocket distracted Greg. He pulled his phone out and swore at the screen. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the station. I’ll see you for dinner on Thursday?”

"Yes. But think on it, please."

"I’ve never been that brand of dickhead and I’m not about to start going after secrets or classified information now,” Greg replied firmly, not sure where this was coming from, particularly when it had been made crystal clear that Mycroft didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. The comb, lying where it had fallen in what he could only have imagined to have been a hell of a scrap, caught Greg’s attention and he latched on. He nodded towards it with a strained smile as he opened the door. “See if you can’t get the rest of his hair.”


End file.
